Your heart is a no man’s land, and
you have fornicated, battle-ready,
with countless minds; The Art of War
alive in your apathetic stare,
a ghostly Sun Tzu in your shadow, and
its pages falling like poetry from your face
Yet, like a Viking, you roar,
axe in hand to slaughter dreams and cut ties;
no art, no honour, and just half the warrior
you claim to be – the septic engraver of
bloody runes and headstone eulogies –
Norse winds carrying the poetry I write of you:
it’s pages never to reach your crimson eyes
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 May, 2017
by your need
but not immune
to this burden
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 25 April, 2017
This space, your distance;
this ocean, too far to swim.
Wash me ashore now.
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 February, 2015
despite my distance,
refuse to let you drift alone,
in my own subtle way,
into the very raft
that keeps you dry.
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 January, 2014
The mirage of distance creates the crossing of paths through the desire for connection.
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 August, 2011